“A piffling sum,” says Edward. “Nothing substantial. Mrs Hammond-Clyde has arranged to see him tomorrow at herPimlico office. Hopefully, it will be enough to see him off once and for all.”
“And if he decides to challenge the will?” asks Alice. “Have any of you considered that possibility?”
“On what grounds?” snaps Edward. “Legally, he is nothing to this family.”
“He was your brother’s partner. They were together for years. Surely that counts for something in the eyes of the law? Even if it doesn’t, I can’t believe you’re willing to toss him out like a piece of unwanted furniture.”
Alice knows more about me than most, but that’s still very little. This wouldn’t be the first time I’d been homeless. When I met Albert, I had just turned seventeen and was working in a gay bar on Compton Street. Illegally, too, having skipped out of the foster system. Back then, I lived on the streets and survived harsh winters. None of them knows about my darker days and what I did to survive. If they did, if I gave them all the sordid details, I think even Alice might reevaluate her opinion of me.
“Don’t waste your breath, Ally.” Coleman’s American accent is usually a refreshing change from the clipped British voices. Today I notice a slight slur in his words. He’s more than likely been drinking, which of late appears to be the only way he can endure his marriage to Victoria. “If you hadn’t worked it out by now, the Callicos make the Borgias look like a bunch of amateurs. Don’t expect any mercy when your time comes.”
“Do shut up, Coleman,” says Victoria.
“Where is he now?” asks Edward.
“Probably in his bedroom,” says Alice. “He’s barely left since the news broke.”
Usually, she’d be right. Except for my early-morning swims, I’ve holed up in the bedroom since she called me with the news and, predicting my disbelief, forwarded me a ‘breaking news’ link from her phone. One of the house staff has been leaving atray outside my door around mealtimes, usually with a mug of tea and a sandwich.
“Staring into that cursed phone, most likely,” says Victoria.
“Somebody needs to remind him about tomorrow,” says Edward. “I will not have him missing his appointment.”
“He knows about it. But I’ll send him a reminder,” says Alice, her tone resigned. “Are we finished?”
“Any update on Sylvie?” asks Coleman as I am about to rise and creep upstairs. I stop because I want to hear everything they have to say.
In the minibus crash that took Albert’s life, Doctor Sylvie Leblanc—Albert’s former colleague and a friend of Coleman’s from his university days—survived with broken limbs and, more worryingly, head injuries. I’ve met her a few times before, and we chatted briefly when she attended the dinner held at the house the night before their fateful journey. I always warmed to her, found her genuinely interested in me and my well-being. She was the only one to survive the crash.
“Still in a coma,” says Victoria. “But her condition is stable. Thankfully.”
“Thankfully,” echoes Coleman.
“You know what I mean. Compared to the alternative.”
Alice told me the police are pinning their hopes on her waking and being well enough to provide a firsthand account of what happened.
“Do we know when the other passenger—” begins Edward.
“Stephan. Dr Stephan Dytrovich,” says Alice.
“Yes. Do we know when his funeral will take place?”
“It already has. Dr Dytrovich was a Muslim,” says Victoria. “In keeping with tradition, his funeral took place quickly, the second day after he died. His family is observing a period of mourning, and I sent them a card and a sympathy basket of food on behalf of the Callico family. Fortunately for us, Fortnum’s deliver.”
“Yeah,fortunatelyfor us,” Coleman mutters.
“We don’t have to show up for anything, then?” asks Edward, ignoring Coleman. “No ceremony?”
“We could go to their home and pay our respects directly—” begins Alice.
“No. We can offer our condolences at Albert’s funeral this Wednesday. If they choose to attend,” says Edward. “Do you want to give everyone an update, Alice? On the arrangements?”
Edward has always relied on Alice to handle the day-to-day minutiae of their lives. Although she rarely discusses anything with the family, they know she also juggles a successful career as a luxury goods distributor. In the fashion world, focused on Europe and Southeast Asia, she has a reputation as a powerhouse. I know she postponed an important European business trip to help with the funeral arrangements—not that any of the family would deign to thank her. Alice is one of those naturally organised persons who never drop the ball once given a project. The room falls quiet once she has covered everything, including answering a few questions.
“Do the cops have any updates?” asks Coleman. “About the cause of the crash?”
“Only what we already know,” comes Alice’s voice. “About the driver losing control of the minibus. That his concentration slipped for a second or—something they think more likely—that he fell asleep at the wheel. The police say the autopsy revealed relatively high levels of alcohol and traces of antidepressant medication in his bloodstream. I am more inclined to believe he’d still been drunk from the night before, although he seemed fine when I spoke to him in the kitchen before they set off, having tea and toast with Mrs Buckland.”